


Fatherhood

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Babies, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, FACE Family, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Slice of Life, Toddlers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: A day in the life of colonial England and France.[Domestic FrUK.]





	Fatherhood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowcatxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/gifts).



Darkness in the English mansion. Scarcely a sound. Even the rustling mice had fallen silent, curled up in their nests within the old, stately walls. There was no breeze to creak through the old wooden beams, no raindrops to patter against the peaked roof or drip from the shutters. All was peaceful.

Until a pure cry pealed out. It rang with helplessness, pleading for attention and assistance. It was repeated, then joined by another, louder voice. Both cries quickly lifted into wails, demanding immediate comfort and lamenting the injustice of the delay.

In the master bedroom, bodies shifted beneath the blankets. One groaned, the other sighed.

“Mmmmm. Your colonies are crying,” mumbled France, barely opening his mouth and certainly not opening his eyes.

Muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, England said, “Between the hours of midnight and six in the morning, they’re your colonies.”

France tugged the blanket up over his head. “I cede them to you.”

England lifted his head, yanked the blanket back down to sneer groggily at France. “They’re already mine, you idiot.”

France smiled sweetly. “Bien, so it’s your job to get up.”

England stared at him, then shoved his pillow at France and hauled himself from the bed. “I hate you.”

“Mmhm,” agreed France, already well on his way back to beauty sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Breakfast was milk and vegetable mash for the colonies. Neither tot was ideal to feed; America would eat anything he could fit in his mouth, but he was prone to stuffing his face too fast, and he’d ruined more than one meal by throwing food everywhere. Canada was pickier, and didn’t eat nearly as much; the challenge there was convincing him to down enough to support a growing boy.

“Open, Canada,” England said, gentle but firm as he offered a small spoonful. “You have to eat, poppet.”

France smiled over from where he was feeding America. “Is he being troublesome, mon amour?”

“Just a little,” England replied stiffly, offended by the way Canada turned his head away as if he had been presented with something disgraceful rather than just a bit of mashed carrot. “He’s taking after you. Fussy Frenchman.”

France scoffed, letting America take the spoon from him while he turned to face England. “Ah oui? You’re sure he isn’t taking after you? Stuffy Englishman?”

England started to form a retort, but paused, a smirk curling his lips. “Well, that makes two colonies taking after me, then.”

France’s brow furrowed in confusion, until he followed England’s smug gaze to America, who promptly smushed a spoonful of peas onto France’s nose. America giggled in delight as France wiped his face clean of green goop. His deeply wounded expression made England’s smirk widen into something just short of a grin. That, combined with Canada’s concerned pout, kept France far from anger. He smiled at them both, gave America’s cheek a chiding little pinch, and stood up. “Swap. I’ll feed Canada.”

“Try to, you mean,” England said, but readily switched places and began delivering tiny spoonfuls into America’s eager mouth.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon was taken up by lessons. Namely, talking lessons. England sat with America in his rocking chair while France and Canada lounged on the sofa. Rocking gently, England spoke slowly, moving his mouth to emphasize each syllable. “Dada,” he said. “Say Dada, America.”

On his lap, the colony smiled, always glad to make noise. “Aaaah.”

“Da. Da.” England was more relieved than normal that Russia wasn’t around to hear that. “Dada.”

“Aaaah! Ammmm.” America latched onto this fun new sound. “Amma! Mama!”

France looked over, eyebrows raised. “Did he say Mama?”

England felt his cheeks start to warm. “No. He must be trying to say his own name.”

France smiled, nodding wisely. “Oui. That must be it.” He returned his attention to Canada. “Say Papa, Canada. Papa.”

“Oi,” England protested. “Don’t teach him French rubbish.”

“Papa?” asked Canada, looking between France and England with wide violet eyes.

France’s face lit up with a smile. “Oui, Canada, très bien.” He nodded to England. “What do we call England? Ma . . . ?”

Canada looked over to England, a tiny furrow darkening his innocent brow. “Dada?”

England and France both looked at the colony, impressed. Then England walked over to kiss Canada’s forehead. “What a smart lad.”

In his arms, America reached up to pull on England’s bottom lip, babbling, “Mamamamama?”

England removed the wee hand from his mouth, sat down beside France, and gave America’s chubby cheek a peck. “Yes, you’re a smart lad, too.”

France smiled fondly. “The British Empire is awfully loving.”

England glared, but playfully. “Yeah, well, do me a favor.”

“Anything, mon amour.”

England bounced his knee to make America giggle. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

* * *

 

Soon, the colonies were put down for their nap. England returned to the sofa with every intention of finishing his latest batch of needlework, but then France knelt between his legs and, well, one thing led to another. England was _close_ , his hands tangled in France’s hair, hushed moans slipping between slightly parted lips, when a squeaky whimper sounded from the nursery.

Both nations froze, listening. Praying it would stop itself.

Of course, it continued, rising in volume. As always, Canada’s cries awoke America, whose screams were just as full-voiced as ever. For someone so small, the boy could deafen you with his caterwauls. And once he started, he would never stop himself.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” England snapped.

France wiped his mouth and stood, offering England a hand.

“They should learn that crying doesn’t solve life’s problems,” England grumbled, letting France pull him to his feet and struggling to button his trousers over a painfully stiff erection.

“One day they will,” France said, abruptly weary. “Everyone does.”

In the nursery, they each took a colony into their arms, holding them close and rubbing their backs. “Shh,” France murmured. “Mama and Papa are here.”

England glared over America’s head. His soothing tone did not match his words. “Mama better be planning on finishing _Dada_ off after this.”

France raised his eyebrows. “Mama should be happy he got what he did. Papa didn’t get anything at all. Mama shouldn’t be so greedy.”

Now England really glared. “Well, maybe Papa was about to get a lot of attention after Dada was done. Maybe Papa should keep his bloody mouth shut.”

France’s eyes widened a little. He didn’t say anything else until the colonies were sleeping again, until he and England had returned to the living room, until France was on his knees in front of the other nation. He stroked England’s thighs and peered up at him, murmuring, “Papa is very sorry.”

England unbuttoned his trousers. “Papa should put his mouth to better use elsewhere.”

Thankfully, the rest of their session went uninterrupted. Afterward, England crawled up onto the sofa beside a spent France, who struggled to get his breath back as England licked his smirking lips and picked up his needlework from where it was waiting on the table.

France smiled, wide and satisfied. “Dada has a . . . very skilled mouth.”

England didn’t glance away from his work. “He learned from the best.”

France put an arm around his lover’s thin shoulders and settled in for a nap of his own, knowing England was more than capable of keeping watch over his valuables.

 

* * *

 

While France busied himself cooking supper, England entertained the colonies. Today’s goal was to make Canada laugh. England valued peace and quiet, and an ability to refrain from speaking when necessary, but the boy was simply too soft spoken. At times, eerily so. Silly faces sent America into hysterics, but Canada only smiled. No laughter. England tried acting out humorous scenes with the colonies’ teddy bears. Nothing.

“Dinner is ready,” France said, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

England dropped the bears he had just been doing a dance number with. “Nothing.”

France arched a dubious eyebrow.

“I’m trying to make Canada laugh.” England gestured to the colonies. Canada sat obediently where he’d been placed, but America was crawling around on the couch, investigating the couch cushions and trying to eat pieces of lint. “He just seems so . . . well, he almost seems sad.”

France stepped over to regard Canada thoughtfully. The little lad did have a certain melancholy about him, but then, so did every other nation with snowy regions. It wasn’t that they were depressed, just quiet, withdrawn. Not that one had to have frigid temperatures to _act_ cold and aloof. “It can’t be any harder than getting you to laugh,” France said. “Of course, I know the secret to it.”

“Oh, really.” England crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“You can’t hear it. You can only show it.” France edged closer, then wrapped his arms around England. “It is a tickle attack!” He tickled England’s sides, hugging him too tight for escape. “Gulli gulli!”

“Ah, you bastard!” England wriggled like a fish, but couldn’t slip free, nor could he stop the involuntary laughter the Frenchman’s fingers brought forth. France laughed at the Englishman’s joyful expression, so at odds with the defiant light in his eyes. Both of them went still, however, when they heard America and Canada dissolve into giggles. The colonies were watching their fathers with such plain love in their beautiful eyes. France smiled lovingly back, but when he looked at England, he saw tears in the other nation’s eyes.

“Angleterre?” he asked gently.

England cleared his throat, removed France’s arms from around himself, and lifted a colony onto each hip. “Come along, lads.” He turned, looked up at France, a small but genuine smile on his lips. “Dinner is ready.”

 

* * *

 

Darkness fell again, finding them in the living room, Canada snuggled on France’s chest, England rocking slowly with America. France was singing an old French lullaby, and it had not only put America to sleep, but England seemed to have drifted off as well. Despite his slumber, his arms still stayed protectively tight around his colony.

Canada had not fallen asleep. He peered up at France, who smiled. “We’ll keep them safe, oui?” France whispered. “Safe and loved.”

Canada looked over at the sleepers, a serious light in his eyes as if marking the pledge down deep in his memory. France nuzzled into his soft, maple-scented curls. _I love you, mon beau fils._ Then he stood, crossed the room, kissed England until the other nation’s eyelids twitched and lifted. “Mm?”

France gave him one last kiss. “Bedtime, mon amour.”

They tucked in their colonies with soft blankets and even-softer teddy bears. They lingered for a moment, watching the brothers curl into each other in sleep, Canada’s curls straying to tickle America’s nose. The little colony wrinkled his nose, lifted his hand to rub the golden hairs away, then let his thumb find its place in his mouth.

“Bonne nuit,” whispered England, his warm gaze on France.

France smiled. “Good night.”

 

* * *

 

In the master bedroom, after their bodies had twined in the long-familiar embrace, France kissed the back of England’s neck. “I love you,” he said softly.

No response.

France rose up on one elbow. “You are not asleep.”

But England looked asleep. Eyes closed, lips parted just a little. Peaceful.

France lowered himself back down into the pillows, just a tad disappointed. England had warned him, after all. _Don’t get used to it._ Perhaps this was just a phase. Perhaps they were only playing parts for now; perhaps they would drift apart into enemies as the colonies grew into nations of their own right. Perhaps France’s feelings were unrequited.

Then England rolled over, buried his face in France’s chest, and mumbled, “Love you, too.”

Even though no one could see it in the darkness, France still smiled.

 

 

 

_The End._


End file.
